They call her a mystic,
but she looks like an angel to me.
Lots of hair.
It covers her shoulders. It blows in the wind.
Arms stretch east and west; she flies. Fingers splay, reach, point.
Charms dangle from her arms—a moon, a sun, a thunder bolt, a globe of glass, and, too, the stars.
These are instruments of prophecy.
Her skirt, a hoop of blues—aqua, navy, sky. A skirt for hiding.
And those eyes, oh those eyes. They slay me, ogle me, taunt me to pay attention.
“Who are you?” she whispers to the clouds.
(“Look under my skirt and you’ll find out. I am not a mystery.”)
Eyes pierce; eyes know what can be seen.
Around her neck, pearls. Is she a lady too?
On her lips, color.
The red of passion,
the blood of demons,
the blush of maidens,
the stain of lovers,
the last of sunset,
the warning for sailors.
No, a lady she is not.